


Revenge of the Sit

by queeroftherodeo



Category: The Try Guys (Web Series)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Cock Warming, Human Furniture, Humiliation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Revenge themes, kind of, very mildly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:40:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22015045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queeroftherodeo/pseuds/queeroftherodeo
Summary: January 2018, Keith tries to get Eugene to sit in his lap all over NYC. December 2018, all the Try Guys surprise Eugene with his worst nightmare — a sit. December 2019, they conspire to get Eugene to sit again. A few months later, Eugene exacts his revenge.This time, Keith sits.
Relationships: Keith Habersberger/Eugene Lee Yang
Comments: 16
Kudos: 107





	Revenge of the Sit

**Author's Note:**

> I hate myself for writing this*. I have no explanation for myself other than this came into my head and I had to get it out. 
> 
> Listen. I know. Smut about real people blah blah, they're in committed relationships blah blah. _I know._
> 
> Disclaimer: This is fiction, based on head-canons not real life, and I can tell the difference between real life and fiction. I do this for fun. Don't like it? Don't read it. Have a great day. 
> 
> Ps. It should go without saying but this is a display of terrible communication and bad boundaries and getting into D/s play without discussion or safe word. This is terrible, do not do it. But it is also fiction and it’s the story I wanted to tell. Sometimes fiction don’t be healthy.
> 
> BIG THANKS to [MythicalCatie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MythicalCatie/) for betaing!
> 
> *Not really. I just hate myself for the title. There's no excuse for puns.

It’s weeks later. Months. They’re in their new office, with their _real_ new furniture finally in place. None of it’s from Ashley. 

It’s just some random Thursday night and everyone’s gone home already except for Keith and Eugene. The crew all filtered out before five and Ned left shortly after, been trying to leave as close to on time as possible these days, and Zach hadn’t been too far behind him. 

It’s a perfect opportunity. Eugene has been waiting for a day just like this, a moment that found the two of them alone. The perfect opportunity to strike. 

Keith’s sitting at his desk, hunched over his laptop, probably finishing up an email or an outline. About fifteen minutes ago, he’d said he was going to try and leave in fifteen. The time is now. 

Eugene interrupts him with the loud and sudden sound of a heavy armchair dragging across the solid concrete floor, and watches Keith start at the sound with sick satisfaction. He turns, eyes Eugene, eyes the chair, and is just about to ask what’s going on but Eugene doesn’t give him the chance.

“You want me to sit on your lap so fucking bad? Fine. Sit down.”

“What?”

Keith just blinks at him stupidly. That’s a game that’s played out now, one he and the guys had finally won. And with winning came moving on from the bit, the joke, working on finding the next thing to go viral and latch onto. It seems like Keith hasn’t thought about getting Eugene to sit on his lap in months. 

Clearly, Eugene has been. 

“I said, sit. Down.” 

Eugene’s tone brooks no argument, but still Keith is slow on the uptake, slower to mobilize. He’s sitting there, half-turned in his office chair, looking over his shoulder with his jaw slack like he’s about to argue.

Eugene _pat pat pats _the back of the chair, face twisting with a too-earnest grin, hands held flat like he’s patting his lap in overzealous invitation. Like how Keith always patted _his_ lap during the months-too-long gag of trying to make Eugene sit, like the words behind the gesture were something like _‘come on, come here, boy, come sit in daddy’s lap!’_ Like Eugene was a dog or a child. 

What makes Keith get up and come sit down isn’t so much a mystery as Keith might think. It’s not the first time a joke has been driven so thoroughly into the ground, revived one too many times, but this is something else. This was over a year, damn near _two_ since it started in New York with Keith not giving the lap sitting invitation a rest. Eugene had been over it before they’d left the city, but the guys (and Keith, mainly) wouldn’t let it die for years. Keith is obvious even though he thinks he isn’t. Eugene isn’t dumb enough to think it’s anything more than curiousity, more than attraction, but it’s been weaponized against him more than once with these repeated lap-sitting videos, and yes, he’s agreed to let them go to air because at the end of the day he’s in this for the success of the company and he recognizes the potential this gag had to bring in clicks in droves, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t keeping score.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t holding a grudge. That he wasn’t planning a ruthless and calculating revenge.

Keith sits. 

It’s a small victory, a nail in Keith’s coffin. An admission that there was more to this than what they could monetize. That there was a draw even when the cameras were off and nobody was watching. 

“Good boy,” Eugene praises him, voice low and cold as he circles around the chair.

“Eugene, what are you doing?”

Keith is sitting there gripping the arms of the chair, watching every move Eugene makes like he hasn’t spent the past two years running through every possible way this scenario could end.

“Do you want me to sit on your lap, yes or no?”

“Yes, I do...”

Keith’s voice is soft like if he keeps it down it’s not as damning, but his response is another piece of evidence; obvious now that there isn’t the guise of the joke, the video, the clicks to hide behind. 

It’s not lost on Keith that Eugene is asking for his consent to sit in his lap, recalls the careful planning of last year’s video where they’d made sure not to have alcohol on hand because he wanted Eugene’s sober consent. Eugene is getting that from him now, taking this just as seriously, maybe more than he had then. 

So Eugene sits. 

He sits down slowly facing away from Keith, none of this side-saddle Santa-lap sitting bullshit. Eugene’s sitting on him like he means it, though as he settles down it feels like they’re both holding their breath, Eugene straining to hear Keith react and Keith desperate not to. 

Keith can’t believe this is happening. He sits there and he watches Eugene move to sit in his lap, back to front, and he can see the lean muscles of his back moving through his white t-shirt as he lets Keith take his weight. Keith’s wound up so tight he could burst, knuckles white on the arms of the chair because he’s holding on so hard, trying not to give away any more than he already has. 

Eugene won’t stand for that. When he doesn’t get the immediate response he knows is brimming just beneath the surface, he has to take it. So he moves. Moves slow and calculated like this is a dance he’d rehearsed, hips grinding down against Keith’s lap. He’s channeling every time he’s ever put on a show for someone he wanted to look at him, wanted to tease, to wring dry. 

Eugene’s no stranger to being looked at, none of them are, but it’s different for him, always has been. He’s struggled for years being the odd man out, the only one not white, the one labeled as exotic, the one people in the comments wondered at, talking about, discussing little nuances and things they noticed in the videos as they built their case. 

Things had shifted when Eugene released his coming out video, but it didn’t negate the reality of living so long with whispers and wondering, with speculation about what he did or didn’t do behind closed doors. Didn’t change the fact that sometimes, the banter from the other guys seemed to overlap into that territory. Didn’t take away whatever this tension was between him and Keith, Keith’s attraction to him like a moth to the flame. Maybe this was Keith’s way to explore. Maybe Eugene was the safest way Keith could try and figure this out about himself. In a way it’s flattering, but he could have just said something at any point along the way, could have handled his feelings, his curiosity like a grownup and just _said_ something. Or, at the very least, had the balls to get drunk and plant one on him sometime.

But he hadn’t, and given his reaction now, Eugene’s not sure why he’s surprised he hadn’t been able to face it head on. Even now, Keith is trying so desperately to hold on, to not give himself away, and he’s putting forth a valiant effort, but he’s going to lose.

“What’s this about, Eugene?” Keith says after taking a few breaths meant to steady himself, breaths that had failed, and he hates that he hears his voice giving away what this is starting to do to him. That he hears his voice distracted, growing breathless.

“You know what this is about…” Eugene practically coos, pulling out all the stops to try and get a rise out of Keith. 

It’s working. Keith is red-faced and mortifyingly aware of how hard he’s getting with so little actually happening. You’d think they were naked, that Eugene was facing him, that there were hands and hot breath and _more_ to get a response like this, but it’s just this. Just Eugene’s denim-clad ass grinding down against him, imprecise as he rubs himself down on his thighs, sitting heavy, moving slow. 

Belatedly, Keith realizes he should look away if he wants any chance of escaping unscathed. That he shouldn’t be looking at the way Eugene’s shirt is wrinkled around his hips and waist, how it clings to his shoulders and upper arms. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, looks sideways at Ned’s desk, the shut laptop, the mess of cables, trying to think about _anything_ but the warm, solid weight of Eugene in his lap.

This would be more enjoyable for Eugene if he was drunk, but he reminds himself this isn’t about having a good time. He’s here to teach Keith a lesson. He’s here to get revenge, to take it to the next level. This is cold and calculated, it’s a targeted attack, so he slows it down, lets their thighs drag together through their jeans.

Keith starts to break whether he knows it or not. Lets his legs part in a silent bid for more, the easy access an invitation. So Eugene swivels his hips, lets the occasional sweeping motion bring him solidly astride one thigh or the other, and he knows that Keith can feel not just the heat of his body but of his crotch as he grinds down hard on the top of Keith’s thigh.

That’s when he wins a sound, this half-choked groan as Keith’s head falls back against the chair. Eugene is winning.

He doesn’t expect it when he feels the ghosting caress of big hands on his sides, and he jumps at the contact, doesn’t want it. Never does. Doesn’t want to be touched, not by them, not by _him_. Never unless it’s the way he wants it, unless it’s invited, unless he’s to the point of starvation. 

He’s not starving yet. 

Eugene slaps Keith’s wrists, sending a clear message, and scolds him.

“Oh no... no, you're a chair, remember?” 

There’s a cold glee in his voice as he twists to look over his shoulder at Keith, to drink in the havoc he’s wreaking. He’s pleased to see how destroyed he already looks, how red-faced and desperate, eyes wide.

“You just sit still.”

Eugene can feel Keith’s hot breath on his neck, and it should be putting him off, should be repulsive but instead it sends a shiver down his spine that he chooses to ignore, rolls the jerky little motion into another swivel of his hips. It brings him back flush against Keith, has them plastered together and there’s no missing how hard Keith is in his jeans, just from this. 

“_Oh_.” 

Eugene doesn’t try to hide his glee at finding that, the grin tugging wide across his face as he twists again, peering back at Keith and his fogged up glasses, ready to hate the look on his face but instead, finding himself strangely compelled by it. Wondering just how much he can affect him, how far he can push this. 

“...I think the chair likes this. Isn’t that right, Chair?”

Keith thinks being quiet is the right answer and by some miracle manages to shut the fuck up and just nod, but he’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. He would have been scolded if he’d spoken, but now he’s being scolded because he hadn’t. 

“I was talking to you, Chair. I asked if you like this.”

“Y-yeah…” Keith manages, voice cracking. It’s another win, another point for Eugene. 

“Mmm… good.”

He could leave it right here. He’d gotten the point across, he thinks. Gotten Keith to admit that he liked this, won something he can lord over his head any time he starts being insufferable again. But has he really? Has he pushed this far enough? He’d considered pushing further, hell he’d _planned_ to push it further, prepared for it, but decided he’d wait and see in the middle of it what seemed like the best course of action. Fully prepared to respond to the needs of the situation, to double down if Keith wasn’t getting the message, or break away if it had been received loud and clear. 

Now, though, he’s considering pushing the envelope regardless. After all, the plan had been to prank them so thoroughly their grandchildren would feel it, so he feels a duty to deliver. Zach and Ned’s prank revenge wasn’t going to be like this, going to take a different direction entirely, one that’s not going to be even remotely sexual, but he’d be damned if it didn't hit so hard it haunted them for the rest of their lives. 

In a split second he makes the decision, decides to go big and drive the message home for Keith. If he’s lucky, he’ll win the secondary prize of peace and quiet from Keith’s nonstop needling him over nothing. At least, he’s telling himself his motivation is pure, both feet securely in revenge and irritation, the only desire being the need to wipe that idiotic grin off of Keith’s face. 

Eugene stands up, and from the sound of exhaled relief he hears behind him, Keith thinks this is over. When Eugene reaches his desk and pulls a tube of lube and a condom from the drawer, he’s got Keith’s full fucking attention, as if he’d come close to losing it. 

Eugene opens his jeans and half-turns sideways as he pushes them down, bracing himself against the desk and makes quick work of spreading lube over his fingers, easing himself open just enough. He’s watching Keith while he does it, keeping his eyes on the target. The point of this isn’t to get himself worked up, just to ease the way, to be able to take. If there was anyone capable of separating emotion from what his body’s doing, it’s Eugene. 

This isn’t a gift for Keith, so it’s not delivered like a tease. He’s only pushed his underwear down enough for what he needs to do, not trying to put on a show, not trying to let Keith unnecessarily see his dick because that’s not what this is about. This isn’t foreplay. He’s not making this sultry or inviting, so if it’s something Keith has yearned for that’s all on him. Eugene has an air about him of someone doing what they have to in order to get the point across, someone who’s a little put out to have to spend the time here, someone who’s _disappointed_ in him. 

That _this_ is doing something, _adding_ _something_ to this for him hits Keith like a ton of bricks and is going to take a lot of time to unpack. Right now, though, it feels to Keith like he just keeps getting blindsided over and over again. 

He sees what Eugene is doing, and he’s not so stunned that he can’t guess where this is going. It doesn’t take a lot of brainpower to piece it together, to figure out that Eugene is punishing him for his incessant efforts to get Eugene to sit in his lap by really and thoroughly sitting in his lap, sitting in his lap so good Keith won’t even be able to think of _pat-patting_ his thighs without going red.

Crossing the room again, one hand fisted in the front of his jeans to hold them up, Eugene tosses the condom down on his thigh without a word. Keith should know the direction this is going, and if he’s willing, he should know what to do to take the next step.

The thing is that either way this goes, Eugene has won. If Keith chickens out right now Eugene wins by virtue of pushing this further than even Keith was willing to take it. And if he doesn’t? If he calls and shows his hand then Eugene still wins and his prize is knowledge, his prize is the secret of whatever motivation lead Keith to consenting. 

Keith sits there, stunned, trying to make sense of the situation, to figure out what’s being presented to him. On the surface it’s obvious, but there’s more than just surface and right now he can’t figure out which way is up; he feels like he’s drowning. Eugene is standing there holding his pants up, an exposed swathe of skin visible, just the barest hint of neatly trimmed dark hair visible above the scrunched down waist of his underwear. Keith can’t stop thinking about how if Eugene let go, they’d fall down, jeans bunched around his thighs, cock free, and... what then? He’d want to touch him, but he’s so aware that he doesn’t have permission, that whatever’s happening here is coming at Eugene’s pace, that he’s the one calling the shots.

When Keith doesn’t move or react, Eugene repeats an earlier question, needs this to be crystal clear one way or the other so they know precisely where they stand here. So when Eugene acts, he’s got the full picture to draw from, because as much as he wants revenge, he doesn’t want to cross _too many_ boundaries, doesn’t want this to be something that inhibits their work. Thing is, Eugene’s idea of what is too far might be different than most people’s. 

“Do you want me to sit on your lap?”

Keith stares up at him, opens his mouth like he’s about to answer but can’t find the words. 

“It’s a simple yes or no, Chair. Do you want me to sit on you?”

_Fuck_, but being reduced to an object shouldn’t do anything for him, nothing at all, and yet here they are and Keith is so painfully aware of his cock throbbing in his jeans at the careless regard he’s receiving from Eugene. He should say no. Any response is damning, but he should say no. 

“Yeah, I do…”

“Go on, then. Be a good chair.”

Eugene watches as Keith unzips his jeans and shimmies them down enough, almost dropping the condom on the floor in the process. He lunges for it, plastic crinkling as he fumbles to rip open the wrapper. Eugene’s eyes are on him, he doesn’t need to look up to know it. He should stop this, he should bail, he should say something to hit the brakes but dear _God_ this feels like his one chance at something he’d never thought he’d get a chance to try and there’s no way in hell he’s going to miss it.

Truth be told, Eugene’s fairly impressed. Not just by the size and shape of Keith’s dick, but by the way he rallies, manages to get his pants down enough, manages on with the condom, remembering to pinch the tip and roll it down. As if it was even necessary to build in the room inside it to come. 

Keith doesn’t quite believe this is going where it looks like it is. He keeps expecting to have the rug pulled out, he’s waiting for the prank. Figures he’ll get this far and Eugene will pull his pants back up and laugh, will walk out and leave him high and dry and that’ll be his punishment — both of them knowing that Keith had said yes, that he’d _wanted_. That maybe, probably, this was the motivation behind the lap sitting gag the whole time. Utter humiliation. 

But it doesn’t end, Eugene doesn’t go for the fake out. No, instead he turns and comes back, resting one hand on the sturdy arm of the chair while the other moves between his legs, between them, helps to situate everything so when he sinks down Keith sinks in. The reaction from Keith couldn’t be more satisfying, a loud startled groan so close by his ear, an awareness that he’d let his head fall against the back of the real chair. A helpless buck of his hips making it clear he’d forgotten his role. 

“A chair is _quiet_,” Eugene scolds him. “A chair _doesn’t move_.”

Very technically, Keith is fucking Eugene, but there’s no world in which an onlooker would say Keith was the one doing the fucking. Keith might be buried inside Eugene, but Eugene is taking. He’s guiding this, laying down the rules and enforcing them, setting the pace. 

Of which there is none. Once he’s settled in Keith’s lap, on his cock, he’s motionless. It’s not comfortable. He’s never been the _get it in and then wait to let me adjust_ type, he’s always wanted to move almost immediately. Felt like it eased the stretch, distracted him from the dull feeling of fullness, lurched him into a space and a speed where it didn’t feel so intimate. It was easy to let go and be railed or ride, but it was harder to be still or nearly still and _feel_, notice the nuance. Which is to say, it’s as hard, pun intended, for Eugene as it is for Keith, but Eugene is made of sterner stuff. This was his plan, his revenge, and he’s got it in him to see it through. 

Keith, not so much. 

He can feel Keith starting to fall apart beneath him. It’s nothing overt at first, just a quickening of his breath like excitement or expectation or the rise of panic. Eugene can feel Keith try to move, try to fuck him on the sly, try to shift his hips so subtly and so slowly that Eugene won’t catch on. But he isn’t having any of that, just sinks down harder, pointedly, and makes a soft sound of disapproval, _tsk tsk_. 

Keith makes some garbled sound that’s entirely incomprehensible. 

Sinking down, though, it feels good. He’s here to prove a point, here to get revenge, but it doesn’t change the fact that Keith feels good inside him when he opens himself to take him deeper, sit more fully in his lap. It barely brushed by his prostate when he’d moved to take him, but there’s this dull ache that tells him he could get exactly the sensation he wants if he just ground his hips down like he had when they were fully clothed. That he could feel the fat head of this cock right where he needs it if he braced himself by gripping the arms of the real chair or Keith’s spread thighs and _moved_. 

“Is this what you wanted?” Eugene asks him, flying right in the face of the last direction he’d given, asking for a response now when he’d just told him to be quiet. 

Keith doesn’t know what to do, what’s expected of him, and he hesitates. Sits there staring ahead at Eugene’s hunched shoulders through that white shirt, at the perfectly styled mess of black hair, drinking in the scent of product and sweat that he’s close enough to smell on him like it’s the last time he’ll get the chance to. And it might be. 

“Is this why you kept nagging me to sit on your lap, Keith? Because you were picturing this? Fantasized about getting your dick in my ass to see what it’s like?” 

Because Keith isn’t the first man he’s come across who was curious, who wanted to try bisexuality with the gay try guy. Who thought it wasn’t gay, really, if he were the one topping, if he never received, if he wasn’t the one wanting and touching and bridging the distance. If he wasn’t the one coming when beckoned. 

Keith doesn’t know what to say because it is and it isn’t. He _had_ thought about this, but not in all the ways that Eugene built up, feared, expected. It wasn’t malicious so much as it was clumsy, but unfortunately, Eugene’s been on the receiving end of _that_ a time or two too many, too. And now certainly isn’t a time he’s capable of finding or stringing words together to explain himself, hardly knows what he’d say even if he had blood enough to fuel his brain. 

So he answers the clumsy answer, the obvious idiotic hapless, “Yeah… I wanted you…”

And that’s enough. That’s damning enough, maybe satisfying enough, because without another word Eugene gets up. He takes a minute to tuck himself back into his jeans and zip up, the only thing betraying his cool and collected exterior the heat of his skin and the sweat on the nape of his neck that his hair clings to, but fortunately Keith isn’t close enough to feel it. 

Eugene turns and runs the fingers of his clean hand through his hair and regards Keith, still sitting there like the pause button had been hit, motionless in shock with his pants down and his dick out, hands still gripping the arms of the chair like he’s afraid of letting go. Eugene thinks the look on Keith’s face will stick with him for the rest of his life, slack-jawed shock that Eugene just _stopped._

Eugene tries to hold on to the satisfaction at wiping that dumb grin off his face. Erasing the whole stupid look of him that he put on every time he tried to get him to sit in his lap, how he’d somehow extend his neck up like some prehistoric bird that extinction had tragically missed, leaving just this hollow expression in its place. 

“I won.”

This should feel like satisfaction. 

“You lose.”

It doesn’t. 

“So shut up.”

He doesn’t know what it is he feels. 

**Author's Note:**

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